


Anything, Everything, Always

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M, Sherlock AU, Unilock, also I'm really sorry that I suck at thinking of titles, and other things that I can't say now because spoilers, ehehehehehe, there will be relationships eventually
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-24
Updated: 2014-02-21
Packaged: 2017-12-06 12:52:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/735921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I suck at summaries.<br/>This is basically a Unilock AU where a lot of things are canon that are in the show, Victor shows up (quite a bit) and Sherlock is Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> BBC isn't mine, and therefore nothing that the BBC owns is mine. Simple logic.  
> Not beta'd or Brit-picked. Any mistakes are my own.

Sherlock woke up.

He sighed and rolled over, pulling the pillow over his head. A new semester. Dull. Another day, just like the rest.

Tedious.

Well, alright. Not _just_ like the rest. His new roommate was moving in today. Not that it mattered. Whoever he was, he'd be begging to be moved by the end of the day. Still, it was something that would momentarily break the monotony that was Sherlock's life.

At 7:20, he arrived at his first class. Lit. Boring. He sat down in his usual seat, then watched as every seat in the room filled up -- every seat, that is, except the ones surrounding him, and a few others scattered around the room.

No one wanted to sit next to Sherlock Holmes.

At 7:30, class began. Sherlock sighed in boredom and prepared to sit through an hour-long lecture about the joys of Shakespeare. Five minutes into the lecture, though, the door burst open and a young man rushed in, panting and red-faced.

"Sorry," he gasped. "Ah, sorry. I... I'm new. I got lost."

The teacher arched an eyebrow but nodded towards the class as a whole, an indication for the young man to sit down. The young man scanned the classroom for a seat, giving Sherlock a chance to properly look at him. He was short, stocky, with short blonde hair. He was wearing jeans and a ridiculous striped jumper that would've looked awful on anyone else but somehow worked on him, and... and he was looking right at Sherlock, with an eyebrow raised.

Against his will, Sherlock blushed as he realised that he'd been caught staring, but the young man didn't seem fazed. Instead, he started walking towards Sherlock, who was startled to realise that the young man planned to sit next to him. 

The young man arrived next to Sherlock and pointed at the desk beside him, head tilted questioningly. Sherlock shrugged and nodded. Why not? It might be nice, having someone sit next to him. At least while it lasted.

"You don't want to sit there," someone hissed from two seats away. Sebastian Wilkes. Of course. "Trust me. He's a freak."

The young man glanced at Seb and then, surprisingly, sat down anyway and took his book out, allowing Sherlock a glance inside his bag.

"I can sit where I want," he told him, and the statement brought a strange, warm feeling to Sherlock's chest.

"John Watson," the young man -- John -- said, turning to Sherlock and nodding at him.

"Sherlock Holmes. You're studying to be a doctor?"

"Um, yes," John said after a long pause. "How did you know?"

"Medical texts, more than one, in your bag. You wouldn't take more than one class of that nature unless you were studying in the medical field. Obvious," Sherlock said, looking down at his desk.

"Yeah, I suppose it is," John said, and Sherlock looked up in surprise. Alright, so maybe John was different.

No. Deducing that John was studying to be a doctor wasn't that bad, compared to some things. John would leave eventually. They all did. Sherlock just had to find his limit, and then push past it. It wouldn't be hard.

Finally, the class was over, and Sherlock gathered his things to go. Before he could leave, though, John tapped him on the shoulder.

"Hey, d'you have anything next?" John asked.

"Ah, no. I don't have another class until this afternoon."

"Well, would you want to meet up at Starbuck's at some point?" John fidgeted awkwardly. "Just... if you could help me catch up on anything important I've missed. And there's coffee."

Oh.

_Oh._

Sherlock wasn't very good with human interaction, never had been, but he was fairly certain that John was asking him out. But John didn't know him, not yet, and once Sherlock deduced him, John would run away as fast as he could, for good reason.

A date couldn't possibly end well.

"Um, John," Sherlock started. "I... I'm flattered by your interest, but I'm not really looking for... I am devoted to -- I suppose you could say I am married to my studies, and--"

John's face had been growing steadily redder throughout this speech, and now he shook his head and cut Sherlock off. "No. No, not like that. I wasn't -- I wasn't asking like that. It's just, I need some help catching up on what I've missed the last semester. Coffee helps me think. That's all. I wasn't asking you on a date."

"Oh." Sherlock relaxed. "Well, then, yes. That would be fine."

"Alright," John smiled. "How does 10:00 sound? I have a few things I need to do first."

"10:00 sounds fine." Sherlock hesitated, but... might as well get this over with now. "I'm sure your brother would like to know how you're doing, and now might be a good time to call him, before he starts drinking again."

John stared. "How... What makes you think I have a brother with a drinking habit?"

"There's a note in your pocket. Crumpled. Whoever gave it to you would have folded it carefully or not at all, but no, it's crumpled. By you. Someone you don't particularly care about then, or you'd be more careful, but someone who perhaps feels obligated to act as though he or she cares about you. Family member is most likely. Now -- the contents of the note. Not a reminder to do something -- they'd leave that somewhere, they wouldn't hand it to you. No, it's information. Size of the note says not a lot of information, one line or two depending on the size of the handwriting. Not an address, then. Phone number is most likely. Wouldn't be your parents, you'd know their number by heart, unless they'd recently gotten a new phone, leading us to the phone itself. Your phone, to be exact. You took it out during class to check the time, and I was able to glance at it. The back of it, specifically. There's an inscription: "To Harry, from Clara" and three kisses, so romantic attachment. That's a new model of phone, quite expensive. Doubtful that a girlfriend would give a gift that pricey, so she's his wife. Was his wife, but he left her. If they were still married or if she'd left him, he'd have kept the phone. Sentiment. But no, he wanted to get rid of it. He left her. He gave it to you, meaning he wants you to stay in touch, bringing us back to the note in your pocket, which can only be from him. Father or brother, then? Father would have more money, and would be more likely to give you a new phone instead of an old one, as well as the fact that a father would be more likely to call you, rather than having you call him. Also, a father wouldn't have a phone this new. This is a young man's device. Finally, the drinking. The phone has scuff marks from when he goes to plug it in every night and his hands are shaking. You never see a drunk's phone without those marks. Could be from you, but you don't have the obvious symptoms of being a drunk." Sherlock closed his mouth abruptly, waiting for the moment when the inevitable disgust would show on John's face. He could see the wheels turning in John's mind, could see him going back over Sherlock's deductions and fitting them together, could see the moment when he realised how Sherlock had read him like a book. Sherlock turned his face away, staring fixedly at a far-away tree, and waited.

"Amazing."

Sherlock blinked a few times, not sure he'd heard correctly. "I'm... sorry?" he asked cautiously.

"You heard me. Amazing. That was... absolutely amazing."

Sherlock allowed himself a glance at John's face, which was shining with unabashed wonder. "You really think so?"

"Of course," John said, shaking his head in astonishment. "Of course I do. Of course it was."

"That's not the usual reaction," Sherlock replied, feeling slightly dazed.

"What is the usual reaction?"

"You heard Sebastian earlier," Sherlock shrugged.

"Sebas... oh, that." John frowned as he remembered. "And everyone thinks that? That you're a..."

"A freak?" Sherlock supplied, eyebrows raised. "Well, you didn't see anyone sitting near me, did you?"

"Well..." John bit his lip. "They're all idiots. For what it's worth."

"Oh." Sherlock wasn't used to this, to someone defending him, didn't know how to respond. "Um... Thank you."

John's slow smile lit up his face, and Sherlock couldn't help but smile back.

"So, 10:00 then," John said abruptly, smirking a bit. Sherlock didn't understand why, until John added, "I should go call Harriet. My sister."

"Sister? Oh, of _course_. There's always something," Sherlock muttered under his breath. John just grinned and nudged his shoulder against Sherlock's. "I wouldn't be too worried about getting one little thing wrong. I'll see you later, alright?"

"Alright," Sherlock murmured, as John ran off.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh gosh guys I'm so sorry for the late update (for all like three people who actually care, that is). School and stuff got in the way. I'll try to update sooner from now on.  
> Also shhh I know that's not how Sherlock and Victor meet in the books shh it's an AU I do what I want *insert Loki gif*  
> And yeah, I haven't bought up the BBC yet, so I still don't own anything.  
> And still not beta'd or Brit-picked.

Sherlock went back to his room to wait -- after all, it wasn't as if he had anything else to do -- and when he arrived, the door was open a crack, and he could hear loud music playing.

So, his roommate had moved in already, or at least started to. Sherlock hesitated before pushing open the door. He'd chased away 17 roommates already this year. There was no reason to believe that this one would be any different. Hoping was a waste of time, and why would Sherlock want this one to stay anyways when he would probably be a distracting idiot just like the rest of them?

He pushed open the door. The boy -- tall, with short, dark hair, left-handed, long-term boyfriend broke up with him before he left -- didn't turn around. He probably hadn't even heard Sherlock walk in, with the music. Sherlock certainly didn't try to catch his attention, just walked over and sat on his bed, perching on the edge with hands clasped in his lap, and waited.

Finally, the boy finished upending the contents of his suitcase onto his bed, and turned.

"Ah!" the boy exclaimed upon seeing Sherlock, arms open wide. "You must be my new roommate. Victor Trevor. And you would be?"

"Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock said, eying the boy in confusion. Was he supposed to... _hug_ him?

"Sherlock Holmes?" Victor repeated, grinning. He lowered his arms after a while, apparently figuring out that Sherlock was _not_ going to hug him. "Brilliant! I've heard all about you! Is it true that you can know everything about someone with just a glance?"

"No," Sherlock said, and Victor looked, strangely, disappointed. "I don't know, I _observe_. And then I take those observations and draw conclusions from them. Such as the fact that you work at a rather expensive clothing store and that your long-term boyfriend broke up with you shortly before you came here."

"Spot-on," Victor said. "How did you know?"

"Your clothing is ridiculously expensive, while the rest of your things are cheap. You're a university student -- obviously you don't have a lot of money. So how did you get the clothes? Your job. Employee discount. Simple."

"And... Mark?" Victor asked, his voice catching slightly.

"You put a photograph on your desk. You and... Mark. Arms around each other, and it's quite obvious from the way you're looking at each other that you're together. The photo's old, worn, lots of creases and a few rips in the corners. You've had it for a while. Long-term. But there are marks on it. Spots, that you tried to wipe away. Tears. Why were you crying while holding a picture of your long-term boyfriend? He broke up with you. Obvious. Long-term relationships rarely work, I wouldn't be too broken up about it."

"Then it's true," Victor said quietly. "That..."

"That I'm a freak," Sherlock finished for him. "Yes. And before you ask, yes, you are allowed to move."

Victor looked incredibly perplexed for a few seconds, and then burst into laughter. Sherlock watched him, growing more confused by the second as Victor doubled over and tears squeezed out of his eyes.

"No!" Victor finally managed to say. "No, no, you moron. It's true that you're _brilliant_. Why... why would I want to _move_ _?_ And who... you don't mean that people actually call you a... a freak?"

"O-of course," Sherlock stammered, dizzy.

"And you _believe_ them?!"

"Well... it's true."

"No, it's not!" Victor yelled. He stood up and grabbed Sherlock by the shoulders, looking into Sherlock's eyes. "You are _brilliant._ You are _not_ a freak. And if you ever let anyone call you that again, I'll find whoever it was and punch them. And then I'll punch you for believing it."

"Oh," was all Sherlock could say.

Two people.

He'd deduced two people in the space of half an hour. First John Watson, and now Victor Trevor. And neither of them had called him a freak or run away.

Remarkable.

At the thought of John, Sherlock remembered that he needed to be at Starbuck's in... half an hour, he saw when he checked the clock.

"I... I have to go," he said, and Victor nodded and let go. "I promised I'd meet up with someone and help him study. He's new."

"So am I," Victor said thoughtfully. "You might have to help me study too, if we have any classes together. And if you don't mind, of course."

"I can," Sherlock shrugged.

"Great! Off you go now," grinned Victor, slapping him on the back and pushing him out the door. "Wouldn't want to be late for your date!"

"It's not a date," Sherlock tried to tell him, but he'd already shut the door, leaving Sherlock feeling as though he'd been spun around several times while blindfolded. He shook his head to clear it and went off to meet John.

* * *

Sherlock arrived at Starbuck's five minutes early, and sat down after getting a coffee -- black, two sugars -- to drink while he waited. He had a permanent discount from one of the baristas, a middle-aged man named Angelo. Angelo had come very close once to being fired after being framed for stealing money from the cash register, but Sherlock had been able to find the real thief, proving Angelo's innocence and saving his job. Angelo had been incredibly grateful, and had given Sherlock and any date he might bring a 50% discount for as long as Sherlock was at university. John wasn't Sherlock's date, but Sherlock was sure that Angelo would apply the discount to him anyway. 

"He's with me," Sherlock called over to Angelo when John walked in. Angelo brightened, and once John had gotten his coffee (with the discount), bustled over to their table to shake both of their hands.

"I always knew you'd find someone!" he said to Sherlock, grinning ear to ear. "Only a matter of time."

John nearly choked on his coffee, and Sherlock rushed to correct Angelo.

"No, no," he said quickly. "We're not together. We're just classmates. I only just met him. We're just... just studying."

"Of course," Angelo smirked, patting Sherlock on the shoulder before going back to the counter.

"Sorry about that," Sherlock said with a roll of his eyes. "He's been trying to find someone for me for... oh, as long as I've known him."

"It's fine. I understand. It's all fine," John said quickly, reaching into his bag for his book. "So... Shakespeare."

* * *

John was hardly brilliant, Sherlock discovered, but he wasn't an idiot either, and he picked up new things very quickly. Even so, by the time John had to leave for his next class, they still hadn't covered all the material John had missed.

"Same time tomorrow?" John asked as he packed up, then quickly added, "Still not a date."

"I know," Sherlock replied, bemused. "Yes, that works. I'll see you tomorrow."

John nodded and left, heading to class, and Sherlock walked out after him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So much for updating sooner *does dance*  
> Seriously, though, guys, I'm really sorry. I have no excuse. This chapter has been written for ages, I just haven't gotten around to posting it. Have two chapters at once to make up for it.  
> On a completely unrelated note, SCIENCE.  
> (By the way, I'm not a professional scientist. I just took Chemistry. So sorry if I get anything wrong)
> 
> You know the drill. I don't own any of it, except the mistakes.  
> Oh, yeah, and reviews. I love 'em.

Sherlock had a Chemistry lab period next -- the only class he actually, genuinely looked forward to, because it meant that he got to experiment, even though the experiments were  _technically_ controlled by the professor. Luckily, the teacher's aid had a huge crush on Sherlock. With a bit of subtle manipulation he was usually able to get her to turn a blind eye to his experimenting, and sometimes she'd even let him in early or stay after class to work extra.

Today, he arrived an hour early to work on one of his longer-term experiments, which had to do with the rate of decay in a corpse (animal, of course) based on the use of certain preservative techniques.

Fifteen minutes before class started -- or somewhere around there. Sherlock was too engrossed in his experiment to pay attention to the time -- he heard the door open and someone walk in. That was odd. Usually no one arrived until right before class started -- or sometimes after. Molly was always here, and the professor... well, he was definitely very odd. He seemed to operate on a different schedule than the rest of the class. He would usually show up forty-five minutes early or so to set up, leave, and then drop in at random times during the class to check up on everyone. It was really not likely that this was him.

"How long have you been in here?" someone asked from right behind him. Sherlock barely resisted the urge to flinch, instead calmly turning to see Victor Trevor, who was grinning widely at him.

"Nearly an hour," Sherlock replied after glancing at the clock.

"Working on... what, exactly? Dead animals?" Victor took a seat next to Sherlock and peered over his shoulder at the experiment.

"Preservation of dead bodies," Sherlock said, continuing to work.

"Fascinating."

Sherlock glanced sharply at Victor, but was surprised to see that there was no trace of sarcasm in his expression. He looked genuinely interested.

"So, do you, um... have this class, then?" Sherlock asked, then stopped. What had that been?! He never stumbled over his words, and he  _never_ said 'um'. And he never,  _ever_ asked questions like that, to which the answer was this obvious. Of course Victor had this class. Why else would he be here?

"Yup," Victor said, oblivious to Sherlock's confusion. "Thought I'd get here a bit early. Where's the professor?"

"He's a bit odd," Sherlock told him. "He's rarely here. It's usually the teacher's aid, Molly, and then he shows up every so often to check on us. I've no idea what he does when he's not here. Maybe work on his own experiments. He's pretty nice, though."

Victor nodded, unpacking his notebook and pencil, along with the handbook that was issued to everyone. "So, what? Is this basically just a free period, then?"

"No, Molly makes sure people actually work. I'm not sure how she does it -- she's not very forceful -- but she does."

"Alright." Victor nodded towards Sherlock's experiment. "Need any help with that?"

"Ah, yes," Sherlock said, handing Victor a beaker filled with chemicals and a piece of rat skin. He grabbed a test tube containing hydrochloric acid and bent down so the marks on the beaker were at his eye level. Then, carefully, he poured two mililiters of the acid into the beaker. The rat skin started bubbling, and quickly dissolved.

Sherlock grumbled, disappointed, and snatched the beaker back from Victor. He set it back on the table and handed the other boy another beaker with a different set of chemicals. He poured some more acid into the beaker. This time, the rat skin started to bubble, but stopped. The solution began bubbling instead and then precipitated.

"Yes!" Sherlock exclaimed, grinning widely and scribbling something down in his notebook. He glanced up then to see Victor watching him with a smile on his face. "What is it?"

Victor shook his head, still smiling. "You're just doing this for fun, aren't you?"

"Problem?" Sherlock asked, arching an eyebrow. "I enjoy science."

"No, no, there's no problem," Victor said quickly. "Actually, it's... it's sort of adorable, really."

"Ador- no!" Sherlock spluttered. He could feel his face heating up. "It's not...  _adorable._ "

"Yes, it is," Victor grinned, elbowing Sherlock in the ribs. "You are adorable. Your enthusiasm is... infectious. I can tell how much you're enjoying this. And you haven't even noticed that class has started."

Sherlock glanced up to see that Victor was right -- class had started. He'd been so absorbed in his experiment that he hadn't even noticed the classroom filling up.

"Oh..." Sherlock said after a long pause.

"See?" Victor said, smiling gently at him. "Adorable."

"It's  _not,_ " Sherlock insisted, and Victor rolled his eyes.

"Whatever you say. Now, what should I hold next?"

* * *

Before Sherlock knew it, class was over. Had been over for half an hour, in fact, when Victor nudged him and nodded up at the clock.

"Hey, you've been here since noon, right?" Victor asked. Sherlock nodded. "Did you eat before, then?"

"No," Sherlock said, thinking for a moment. He'd eaten yesterday, and gotten a coffee this morning, so... "I don't need to eat until Thursday."

"Thurs- but it's Monday!" Victor exclaimed. "That's four days! You can't go four days without eating!"

"Yes, I can," Sherlock said.

"No, no, no." Victor grabbed Sherlock's hand and walked purposefully towards the door, dragging Sherlock after him. "There's a great pizza place pretty close to campus. That's where I ate lunch. I'm taking you there, and you are going to eat, and I'm not taking no for an answer. You need to eat."

"I... I need to clean up..." Sherlock made a last attempt at a protest as he was pulled through the campus, drawing more than a few odd looks from fellow students.

"Nope!" Victor said cheerfully. "I'm sure Molly will take care of it. That's her job, after all."

A few minutes later, despite Sherlock's attempts to convince Victor that he actually didn't need to eat, the two arrived at the pizza place. Victor kept hold of Sherlock's hand -- probably to make sure he didn't try to escape, which Sherlock supposed was a reasonable worry -- as he ordered a small pizza, then pulled Sherlock over to a table and sat across for him while they waited for the pizza.

"So, tell me about yourself," Victor said, resting his chin on his free hand and offering Sherlock a smile. "What do you do for fun, besides experiments?"

"That's about it," Sherlock admitted. "Occasionally, I help Scotland Yard solve cases that they can't solve by themselves -- which is most of them, to be honest -- but only unofficially. It wouldn't do for the public to know that a 19-year-old is smarter than all of Scotland Yard. Oh, and I play the violin. It helps me think. Would that bother you?"

"No." Victor shook his head. "I think I'd like to hear you play, actually. What else? What are you majoring in?"

"Criminal investigation," Sherlock told him, glancing suddenly down at their hands, which were still joined. "It was the only vaguely interesting major I could find. You're still holding my hand."

"Problem?" Victor smirked, a passible imitation of Sherlock earlier. "I can stop if you want."

"No," Sherlock said quickly, then blushed. "I mean, you don't have to. It's fine."

Victor smirked again, and didn't release Sherlock's hand until the pizza arrived. Then he let go in order to grab half the pizza and pull it onto his plate, shoving the rest towards Sherlock and taking a huge bite of his own pizza.

"Eat!" he said through a mouthful of crust and tomato sauce and cheese. Sherlock sighed and picked up a slice. He inspected it gingerly before carefully, reluctantly, taking a bite. Victor watched him eat, taking another bite of his pizza every so often. By the time Victor was finished with his half-pizza, Sherlock had only finished one slice and had just started on the second. Victor rested his chin in his hand, watching Sherlock with a small smile on his face.

"What?" Sherlock asked once he'd swallowed. Victor shrugged.

"Nothing really. Just, you're adorable. Seriously. Has no one ever told you how adorable you are?"

"No," Sherlock mumbled, his face turning red against his will as he looked away awkwardly. "Because I'm  _not._ "

"Mm. Sure you're not." Victor grinned and took the last slice of pizza. "Now come on. Finish up that slice and let's go back to the dorm. I want to know if you were telling the truth when you said you could play the violin."

* * *

Sherlock was completely exhausted by the time he crawled into bed that night, after one more class and several hours of what Sherlock was pretty sure would be called 'hanging out' with Victor. Victor was... incredibly energetic, to say the least. And, surprisingly, he actually seemed to like Sherlock. Maybe even more surprisingly, Sherlock liked him, too. 

"Night, Sherlock," Victor mumbled from his bed. Sherlock didn't respond. He lay awake for several hours, trying to make some sense out of everything that had happened that day, before finally falling asleep.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second chapter of the day, as promised. I'm not sure when I'll get the next one up, but it's well on its way to being done. I'll do my best to not forget to post it for three months, but no promises. School has a way of sucking the life out of you. Also, college applications. Ugh. Wish me luck.  
> I didn't own it an hour ago, and I don't own it now. Sorry about the mistakes. Reviews are great. Thanks.

Victor had already left by the time Sherlock woke up the next morning. Off to his first class, Sherlock guessed. He rolled over and lay in bed for a while longer before heading off to his own class.

* * *

After his Calculus class, which was boring and far too easy, as usual, Sherlock walked to Starbuck's for his not-date with John. John was already there when he arrived, sitting at the same table as the day before with his textbook and a coffee. When Sherlock sat down across from him, John looked up and smiled at Sherlock, sliding a piece of paper across the table for Sherlock to look at. His class schedule.

"I thought we could see if we have any other classes together," John said. "So you could help me with those, too. If you want."

"Alright," Sherlock said absently, scanning the schedule. Besides the English class, obviously, he had two other classes -- History and Physics -- with John, and they both had Calculus at different times. He told John that.

"So, just... same time, here, every day until I'm caught up?"

"Yes," Sherlock agreed, and pulled out his own textbook. He opened it and started telling John about Julius Caesar.

They'd made it just past the stabbing when Sherlock's mobile buzzed. He pulled it out, checked it, and grinned. "Lestrade."

"Sorry, what?"

"I solve cases for Scotland Yard in my spare time," Sherlock explained. He pocketed the mobile and stood up, starting to gather his things. "Lestrade is the Detective Inspector who lets me know when they need my help."

"And they need your help now." It wasn't a question. John looked slightly sad, for some reason.

"Mm." Sherlock nodded and turned to go, then hesitated. "You're studying to be a doctor."

"I am."

"An army doctor." 

"How do you even -- oh, never mind, yes I am."

"You'll be seeing a lot of blood. A lot of violent deaths."

"Yes." John rested his elbow on the table and his chin in his hand. "Sherlock, where is this going?"

"You probably haven't seen any dead bodies yet, have you?" Sherlock asked, ignoring John's question. "You've no idea how you'll react."

"I've got a strong stomach. I'll be fine."

"Still... some practice, perhaps, would not be amiss. Training." Sherlock pulled out his mobile and brought up the text, holding it out so John could see. 

"It's an address," John said, looking at Sherlock in confusion. "An address and a name, and then it says she left a note."

"A suicide note. The police think she committed suicide, along with several other people. I'm going to prove them wrong." Sherlock took the phone back, picked up his bag, and turned to go.

"As I said. Practice," he called over his shoulder. John looked surprised for a moment, before a smile spread over his face. He packed his things into his bag and got up, following Sherlock outside where they hailed a cab to get to the address in the text.

* * *

The two arrived at the crime scene and were greeted by Lestrade, who was wringing his hands nervously. 

"You've got five minutes, that's all," he said, then noticed John. "Sherlock, who's this? You know you're not allowed to --"

"He's with me," Sherlock said quietly, pushing past Lestrade and holding the tape up for John, who followed him into the house.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade called after him, but Sherlock ignored him. He went up the stairs to where the woman had been murdered (and it was a murder, no matter what the police said. Serial suicides? With the same pills? Ridiculous), John trailing behind him.

The body was face down. A woman, wearing an outfit of a frankly alarming shade of pink. Next to her hand was the word 'Rache', scratched into the wood floor with her fingernails.

"Four people," Sherlock muttered, walking over to the woman and bending down to examine her. "All took the same pills. The first three didn't leave notes, why would she?" He turned to Lestrade, who had followed him upstairs. "Who was she?"

"Jennifer Wilson," Lestrade told him. "We're running her details now."

"Mm," Sherlock mumbled, circling the woman. He ran his hand over the underside of her collar. Wet. Her jewelry next. All clean, except her wedding ring. Dirty. He pulled it off her finger. The inside was clean. He stood back up but continued to circle. Splash marks on the back of her leg. An umbrella in her pocket. Sherlock pulled out his phone.

"I need everything you've got," Lestrade said, arms crossed and looking nervous. Well, of course he was. Sherlock wasn't even supposed to be here, technically.

"Well, we know she's German," said Anderson, standing in the doorway. Probably trying to show off. "Rache -- it's German for revenge."

"Yes, thank you for your input," Sherlock said, not even looking at the idiot as he shut the door in his face. Sherlock had thought about that possibility already and discarded it. Jennifer Wilson had been dying. She would not have used her last bit of strength to write 'revenge'. Much more likely that the word was 'Rachel'. Someone close to Jennifer, perhaps, someone who the Yard (or, hopefully, Sherlock himself) could question. Turning back to Lestrade, he said, "Serial adulterer. Marriage failing -- obviously. From Cardiff, just in town for a day. Probably on business, most likely something in the media, going by the lurid shade of pink."

"If you're just making this up -- Lestrade interjected, and Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Look at her jewelry. All of it's clean -- but not her ring. State of her marriage right there. You can tell a lot about someone's marriage by the condition of her ring. The inside of the ring's clean, though. Of course it is -- the only polishing it gets is when she works it off her finger. Why? She hasn't got a desk job, look at her fingernails. So what, or rather,  _who_ does she remove her rings for? Not one lover, she'd never sustain the fiction of being single for that long. She's got a string of them. Now -- her clothes are wet, so it was raining. And the underside of her collar is wet, from where she turned it up against the wind. But the umbrella in her pocket is dry. The wind was too strong for her to open it. Now, we know from the case --"

"The case?" Lestrade interrupted him.

"Yes, the case, her suitcase. It was small, we can tell that from the pattern of splash marks on her leg from where she dragged it behind her. Could only be a one-day trip then. And where has there been rain and heavy wind in the radius of that travel time?" He held out his phone with Cardiff's weather page pulled up. "Cardiff."

"Amazing," John said instantly. Sherlock blushed.

"Yeah, about the case, Sherlock," Lestrade started, but Sherlock cut him off.

"Yes, the case, where is it? I need to see it?"

"There was no case, Sherlock."

"What?" 

"You keep saying there was a case, but there wasn't one," Lestrade told him. He looked unbearably smug. Sherlock hated it.

"Well, I assumed you'd taken it," Sherlock muttered.

"We didn't. Maybe she left it back at her hotel?"

"No, she never made it to the hotel, look at her hair," Sherlock said, gesturing at Jennifer's body. "She'd never have left the hotel with her hair looking like that. She would have --  _oh._ "

"What?" Lestrade asked, folding his arms, probably in irritation.

"Serial killers are hard," Sherlock said, ignoring Lestrade's question as he went for the door and started down the stairs. "You have to wait for them to make a mistake."

"Yeah, well, we don't have time to wait--"

"Oh, we're done waiting," Sherlock told him, his smile growing wider. "Look at her --  _really_ look. Houston, we have a mistake."

"Wait -- what mistake?" Lestrade called after him, and Sherlock stopped and turned.

" _Pink!_ "

* * *

Sherlock dug around in the skips surrounding the crime scene for over an hour before he found the case and brought it back to his room. He ended up missing most of his Physics class, but that was his second best subject, so he was sure he'd be fine.

He pulled John aside after the class was over, thrusting his phone at the other boy.

"Put your number in," he instructed John. "And give me your phone so I can put mine in. That way if something like today ends up happening again I'll be able to contact you and we can meet up somewhere."

"Yeah, about that," John said, entering his number and handing Sherlock's phone back. "After you left me there -- and thanks for that, by the way -- I wandered around for a while, and then this black car drove up and started following me around until I got in. And this guy--"

"Did he offer you money to spy on me?" Sherlock asked.

"Um, yes, how did you--"

"Did you take it?" Sherlock interrupted again. Of course. Mycroft. Just what he didn't need. Couldn't his brother just leave him alone for once?

"No, of course not."

Sherlock did his best not to show his surprise. Everyone Mycroft had offered that option to had taken the money. Not that a lot of people had gotten close enough to Sherlock for Mycroft to kidnap them. "Too bad. We could have split it. Now give me your phone."

John handed Sherlock his phone and folded his arms. "Who was he?"

"The most dangerous man you'll ever meet, and not my problem right now," Sherlock told him, hoping a camera would pick that up and Mycroft would take a hint. He finished putting his number in John's phone and handed it back to him. "I need to go to my next class. But we need to meet up after that. When are you free?"

"2:45," John told him.

"Alright. Meet me at my room at 3:15," Sherlock said, and left.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two months isn't... so bad, right?  
> Right?  
> Also, confrontational scenes are my favourite to write. Ever.  
> And again, the next chapter is well underway. And college applications are almost done, so that one should be up quicker. No promises though.  
> Not beta'd or brit-picked, and I still don't own anything except this interpretation of Victor Trevor.   
> Also, warnings for language.

Sherlock  _hated_ Psychology. It was incredibly boring -- he already  _knew_ all of this already -- plus several members of the rugby team were also in his class, and their favourite activity was tormenting him. It was always just subtle enough that the teacher wouldn't notice, and Sherlock hated it.

He took his usual seat, resting his chin in his hand, and waited for everyone to arrive. He heard Jake slide into the seat next to him and braced himself, waiting for the taunts to start. Jake poked his arm. He flinched, then hated himself for reacting. It would just add fuel to the fire.

"Hey," a voice that wasn't Jake's said. It did sound familiar, though... Sherlock looked up to see Victor sitting next to him.

"Hey," Victor said again. "It's just me. You okay?"

Sherlock nodded, relaxing, but stiffened again when he saw someone standing next to Victor's seat. This time, it  _was_ Jake, and he looked angry.

"That's my seat," Jake pointed out.

"Oh, sorry--" Victor said, starting to get up, but Jake wasn't done.

"Why'd you want to sit with the freak anyway?"

Victor's eyebrows shot up, and he froze. "Excuse me?"

Jake smirked. "Oh, didn't you know? The kid's a freak. Like fucking psychic. He can look at you and just  _know_ everything about you -- and then he'll tell you. Doesn't give a shit that you might not want other people to hear it. He doesn't care at all."

Victor did stand up then, facing Jake. Sherlock couldn't see his face, but there must have been something in it different from his usual expression, because suddenly Jake actually looked slightly worried.

"First of all, he has a name," Victor practically  _growled._ It sent shivers down Sherlock's spine. "And  _Sherlock_ is not a freak. He's the most brilliant person I've ever met, and you know what I think? I think you're jealous because he'll end up doing something worthwhile with himself -- hell, he already  _is --_ and you'll be stuck in some boring desk job for intolerant idiots like you who can't recognise something incredible when it's staring them in the face."

"Okay, listen, I know you're new, so I'll cut you a little slack," Jake said. He didn't look scared anymore. Tormenting Sherlock was practically his job, and he wasn't going to let Victor stop him. "You must not know yet -- but when I say he doesn't care, I mean he doesn't care  _at all._ He's not capable. Like a psychopath or some shit."

"Sociopath," Sherlock muttered under his breath. 

"He's not," Victor said forcefully. "Now  _you_ listen. I know there's no way you know him at all, but I'm not going to cut you any slack. Because I don't doubt that you had the  _chance_ to know him. If you'd wanted -- if you weren't a complete arsehole -- you might even have been able to be his friend. But you ruined that --"

"What do you know?" Jake cut Victor off, smirking. "You've known him for, what, two days? He's probably acting. He's probably just pretending to care about you because he thinks he'll want something from you later. He literally  _can't_ care."

"He  _flinched_ when I touched him because he thought I was you!" Victor was yelling now. Sherlock looked around -- the classroom had filled up, and the teacher was staring at them in annoyance, but neither Victor nor Jake had noticed. "You think that doesn't prove that he can feel hurt  _at least?_ And have you  _seen_ him when he's doing science? He  _loves_ it. He cares so much more than you will  _ever_ understand!"

" _HEY!"_

Sherlock, Victor, and Jake all turned to see the teacher glaring at them, his arms folded.

"You two, save it. This is Psychology, not Teenage Girl Drama 101. Finish this later. Not in my class."

Victor nodded, then turned back to Jake. "I suggest you find another seat," he said, and sat down again. The teacher started talking, but Sherlock couldn't pay attention. He just stared at Victor, completely dumbstruck.

"Hey, you okay?" Victor asked, glancing over and meeting Sherlock's eyes.

Sherlock wanted to say yes. He wanted to say that no one had ever defended him like that before -- or at all. He wanted to ask why Victor actually seemed to  _care_ about him when no one else did. But when he opened his mouth, all that came out was, "Thank you."

Victor smiled at him. "You're welcome. But I was only doing what any decent human being would have done."

"Well. Still." Sherlock shrugged, embarrassed. 

"Yeah, yeah, you're welcome," Victor grinned, nudging him. "Now pay attention. Even though I know you probably have the whole book memorised, some of us actually need to listen to the teacher. And some of us are easily distracted."

"I didn't realise I was distracting," Sherlock said. For some reason, Victor seemed to find that funny.

"You're very distracting," Victor told him. "Now shh."

* * *

Victor disappeared immediately after class, so Sherlock just went right back to his room and started going through the case. He was interrupted by someone clearing their throat behind him, and looked up to see John.

"Ah. Good. You're here." Sherlock stepped back and gestured at the case. "Take a look."

John knelt down. "What am I looking for?"

"The impossible."

John looked for a few minutes, then glanced back at Sherlock. "I don't see anything out of the ordinary, Sherlock."

"It's not what's there, it's what's not there," Sherlock told him. "Look again."

John did. He went through the entire case and then shook his head. "I don't know," he admitted. Sherlock sighed in annoyance.

"Her  _phone,"_ he told John. "Where is her phone? She didn't have it with her, and it's not in the case. So where is it? Or rather, who is it with?"

"You think the murderer has her phone?"

"Good, you're not a complete idiot," Sherlock said approvingly. "Maybe she dropped it accidentally, maybe she planted it on him. Now, there's a number on the desk. I wasnt you to text it. These exact words: 'What happened at Lauriston Garden? I must have blacked out. 22 Northumberland Street. Please come.'"

"Hang on, why can't you do it?" John asked, but pulled out his phone and started typing anyway.

"My number's on my website. It might be recognised."

"You have a -- oh, never mind. Of course you do," John said, shaking his head as he sent the text. "There. Now what?"

John's phone started ringing almost immediately. John picked it up and was about to answer it, but Sherlock grabbed it from him.

"Hey, give that back!" John objected.

"Don't be stupid, John. Who do you think it is?" Sherlock said patiently, as if talking to a small child. John's eyes widened in realisation. Finally.

"The person I just texted -- but hang on. Sherlock. Did I just text a murderer?"

Sherlock nodded. "Of course. And that would be him! Come on, John!" he called, already running out the door.

The game was on.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I had the majority of this chapter written, but then I couldn't figure out how to end it, so I let it sit for about a month before I wrote two or three sentences for the ending.  
> ...Sorry...  
> Also, meh. I'm not too proud of this chapter. I feel like it's not my best writing. I had writers block for a lot of it, so.  
> You know the drill. I don't own it, blah blah blah, mistakes etc.  
> Also, hey, should you want to talk to me, my tumblr is sherandjohn.tumblr.com

After a stakeout and a chase after a cab that ended up being an American tourist just arrived in London ("You have to admit that as alibis go, that one is pretty airtight," John had said later), Sherlock and John made it back just in time for their History class. Sherlock caught sight of Victor across the room and considered going to sit next to him. But he wasn't sure whether Victor would want that. Sure, they'd talked a bit and hung out... but weren't those normal roommate things to do? It didn't necessarily mean they were friends.

Sherlock ended up sitting near the back of the classroom next to John. Victor didn't even notice he was there until the teacher called on him to answer a question. Then Victor turned, his eyes widening. He came up to Sherlock after class, looking almost hurt for some reason. 

"You could've sat next to me, you know," he said.

"I..." Sherlock trailed off, not sure what to say. Thankfully, John responded for him.

"We only barely made it back in time for class," he said, his eyes darting over Victor as if sizing him up. "We had to find seats quickly."

Victor looked at John, then back at Sherlock, an eyebrow raised.

"This is John," Sherlock said, by way of explanation. "We were on a case. John, this is Victor. My roommate."

"And friend, I'd hope," Victor added, causing an inexplicable wave of relief to wash over Sherlock. "There -- introductions done. I really should be going now. I have a case to solve. Come on, John!"

He walked purposefully towards the door, pulling out his phone. It had buzzed with a text (from Lestrade, of course -- the only other person who might text him was John, and John had been sitting right next to him) halfway through class, and he'd been itching to read it the whole time.

"Apparently, Rachel was Jennifer Wilson's stillborn daughter," Sherlock told John once he'd caught up. "But that doesn't make any sense. Why would she write her daughter's name? It had been years..."

John's mouth dropped open, and he stared up at Sherlock.

"...Not good?" Sherlock asked, a sinking feeling in his stomach.

"Bit not good, yeah," John replied. Sherlock shook his head.

"It still doesn't make any sense. She was dying, why would she --  _oh._ " Sherlock's face lit up with a grin. "Oh, she was clever. She's cleverer than all of Scotland Yard and she's dead!"

"What?" John asked in confusion, but Sherlock just shook his head and kept walking. Once they'd arrived at Sherlock's room, he pulled out his laptop and typed in the web address on the luggage tag attached to Jennifer's suitcase.

"She would have done all her business from her phone," Sherlock explained. "So her email address was connected to her phone. And the password is..."

"Rachel," John said, watching over Sherlock's shoulder as he typed it in. Sherlock nodded. 

"There'd be a GPS tracker in the phone in case she lost it, and we should be able to access it. So we should be able to see where the phone -- and the murderer -- are."

Sherlock waited in anticipation. Finally, the tracker loaded -- but there must have been a glitch, because it showed that the phone was in Sherlock's dorm.

"That can't be right," Sherlock said.

"Maybe it fell out of the case when you were bringing it in?" John suggested, but Sherlock shook his head.

"No. I would have noticed."

Then someone knocked at the door.

"Not now!" Sherlock called out.

"Oh, but Sherlock, your taxi's here," the dorm head -- Mrs. Hudson -- called through the door.

"I didn't call for a taxi!" Sherlock yelled, then muttered under his breath, "It must be malfunctioning."

"He's very insistent that you did." Mrs. Hudson again.

"Mrs. Hudson, I didn't --" Sherlock stopped, his eyes widening in realisation. Oh. Of  _course._

"What?" John asked.

"Nothing, nothing, I just... need some fresh air," Sherlock lied, opening the door and pushing past Mrs. Hudson to get outside, where a cab was waiting by the curb.

"Taxi for Sherlock Holmes," said the cabbie.

"It was you."

The cabbie smirked and nodded. "Nobody suspects the cabbie. We're practically invisible. I'm surprised more of us don't branch out."

Sherlock pulled out his phone, his thumb hovering over the speed-dial for Lestrade, but the cabbie shook his head. "You don't want to do that, Mr. Holmes."

"And why not? It'll put you behind bars, and I believe they call that a result."

"Yeah. But then you'll never find out how I made those people take the pills. And we both know you want to."

Sherlock hesitated. He  _did_ want to know. And he could call the police later.

He put his phone away. The cabbie got into his cab, and Sherlock followed. He looked around the cab for anything that might be of importance. The only thing he could use was a photo of two children, with the end ripped off. Their mother, most likely. Probably a divorce.

"Where are we going?" Sherlock asked after a few minutes.

"You know every street in London," the cabbie said. "You already know where we're going."

"Roland-Kerr Further Education College," Sherlock said as the cab slowed to a halt, and the cabbie nodded. "Why?"

"Why not? No one's here but the janitors. Door's unlocked. Perfect spot for a murder."

"I could walk away right now," Sherlock pointed out. The cabbie pulled out a gun and pointed it at Sherlock, and Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Oh,  _boring._ "

"Don't need to use it on you, though," the cabbie said, putting the gun away. "You'll come by yourself."

"Obviously." Sherlock got out and followed the cabbie into the building. The man led him into a room and gestured for him to have a seat, then sat across from him.

"Now what? You kill me?" Sherlock asked, growing increasingly bored.

"No," the cabbie told him. "I'm gonna talk to you, and then you're gonna kill yourself."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. He highly doubted that. The cabbie pulled out a bottle with two pills in it and set it on the table.

"I love this part," he said, chuckling. "Because you don't get it yet, do you? But you will. As soon as I do... this." And he set a second bottle, with two more pills, on the table. "It's a game, Mr. Holmes. With one move. And that move is this."

The cabbie reached out, pushing one of the bottles towards Sherlock.

"Did I just give you the good bottle, or the bad bottle? Is it a bluff... or a double bluff... or a triple bluff? Take your time deciding. It's your life on the line after all."

Sherlock had already figured out which was the good pill. Of course, he had no intention of taking either. 

"Why are you doing this?" he asked curiously.

"Well," said the cabbie. "You're the genius. You figure it out."

Sherlock's eyes darted over the cabbie, deducing him. He hadn't gotten new clothes in a while -- three years. Shaving cream behind his ear -- no one had told him. No one to tell him? No point?

"You haven't got long, have you?" he asked finally, and the cabbie shook his head. 

"Aneurysm," he said, tapping his head. "Right in here. Any breath could be my last."

"So you've killed four people?"

"I've  _outlived_ four people," the cabbie corrected him. "Most fun you can have with an aneurysm."

"No..." Sherlock said thoughtfully. "That's not all, is it? There's something else, some other reason you're doing this."

The cabbie nodded. "Got myself a sponsor. Every person I kill, money goes to my kids."

"Who'd sponsor a murderer?" Sherlock asked. The cabbie smirked.

"You've got yourself a fan, Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Give me a name."

"Why? It won't matter in a minute anyway. You'll be dead."

"What if I were to just walk away right now?" Sherlock asked, and the cabbie pulled out the gun again. It had been dark outside, but in the fluorescent light Sherlock could see easily that the gun was a fake.

"Oddly enough, most people choose the pills," the cabbie told him, and Sherlock grinned.

"I'll have the gun."

The cabbie's eyes widened. Not used to people calling his bluff, then. "You sure about that?"

Sherlock nodded. "The gun. Now."

The cabbie hesitated. Sherlock raised an eyebrow, and the cabbie pulled the trigger -- lighting a flame from the tip.

"I know a real gun when I see one," Sherlock said, and stood up. "Well, this has been very informative. I look forward to the court case."

"Don't you want to know whether you were right or not?" the cabbie asked. Sherlock glanced down at him.

"Of course I was right." He grabbed the pill bottle he'd chosen and held it up to the light.

"If you're so certain, then..." the cabbie picked up the other bottle and unscrewed the cap, tipping a pill into his palm. "What do you think, shall we?"

Sherlock did the same with his bottle, holding the pill up to his lips, all the while watching the cabbie.

"You live for this," the cabbie said, almost conversationally, as if one of them wasn't about to die. "The danger. The thrill. You'd do anything to just stop being bored. You're not bored now, are you?"

The cabbie lifted the pill to his lips. Sherlock was about to take the pill when --

\-- there was the sound of a gunshot --

\-- the cabbie collapsed -- 

\-- and Sherlock dropped to the floor.

He got up almost instantly, looking out the window, which -- along with the window of the building across from it -- had a small bullet-sized hole. The shooter was gone. Sherlock ran over to the cabbie, who was lying on the floor. The man had been shot in the shoulder and was losing blood fast. He didn't have much time.

"This fan you were talking about earlier," Sherlock said. "Who is it?"

The cabbie shook his head. "You'll be... meeting him soon enough."

"Tell me!" Sherlock yelled.

"N-no." And the cabbie's eyes closed. Sherlock grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him, but he was definitely dead. Sherlock growled in frustration, finally calling the police to tell them what had happened.

* * *

When the police arrived at the crime scene, they gave him a shock blanket (really? They knew him, they knew he wasn't in shock) and made him sit down, no matter how many times he told them he was fine. Lestrade came over and yelled at him for a bit for going after the murderer without at least  _texting_ him first, and then started going on about the shooter and how they had nothing to go on, and Sherlock rolled his eyes. Lestrade noticed, surprisingly.

"Oh, now you're going to tell me you know exactly who the shooter is because of the size of the bullet hole in the window, aren't you?"

"Hardly, but I wouldn't say we have  _nothing_ to go on," Sherlock said.

"Oh, go on then," Lestrade sighed, pulling out a pad of paper and a pen. "I'll even take notes."

"He -- assuming it's a man, of course, which is statistically more likely -- shot from a building away and hit his target. So he'd a good shot, he's clearly used a gun before. He didn't fire until I was about to take the pill and therefore in direct danger, so strong sense of morals. But you can tell he's young because --" and Sherlock turned his head and saw John Watson standing there and  _stopped._

Oh?

_Oh._

"Sherlock?" Lestrade's voice in the background. "What else?"

"Nothing." The word escaped Sherlock's mouth before he knew he was going to say it. Then he wondered why he had. He knew who's shot the cabbie, why wouldn't he tell Lestrade? It was just an extension of the game, the work, the most important thing to him. 

But John... John was kind. John had not called him a freak. And John didn't deserve to go to jail for protecting Sherlock.

" _Nothing?_ " Lestrade asked, confused (though that was nothing new).

"Nothing," Sherlock repeated, his eyes on John. "Never mind, I was mistaken." That was new. He hadn't meant to say that either. "It's the, ah, the shock talking. Sorry, I have to go talk to my... classmate. About a project."

And then he was standing in front of John.

"Where'd you get the gun?" he asked.

"What gun?" Oh, that was transparent, Sherlock saw through it in an instant, but it still caused an odd warm feeling in his chest. John had shot someone. For him. Not for recognition or anything like that, just... to protect Sherlock.

He raised an eyebrow, and John looked away.

"Alright, I got it from my father. He was --"

"In the army, yes, I know. That's why you were thinking of joining after Uni, in fact. He just gave you his gun?"

John opened his mouth, then closed it again and shook his head. "Never gonna stop being amazed by that, you know. Yeah, he did. Well, he loaned it to me until I get my own."

Sherlock nodded. Grinned.

John Watson was _interesting._ More so than he'd originally realised.

"Dinner?" he asked. "I know a good Chinese place."

"Of course," John replied instantly. Then his gaze shifted to over Sherlock's shoulder and he swallowed, hard. "Sherlock. It's him. The man from earlier."

Sherlock wheeled around to see Mycroft standing in front of him, arms folded, and Anthea (or whatever her name was) next to him, tapping away at her Blackberry.

"What are  _you_ doing here?" he growled, annoyed.

"I was merely attempting to check on my little brother's health," he said with that infuriating  _smirk_ of his. "You did nearly die, after all."

"Wait, he's --" John cut himself off, looking from Sherlock to Mycroft and then back again. 

"No, I didn't," Sherlock said, ignoring John. "I had the right pill."

"Of course you did," Mycroft said. Sherlock snorted in irritation and walked away. A few moments later, John caught up with him.

"He's your brother," he said. It wasn't a question, and Sherlock was (slightly) proud of him for that.

"Yes. Anything else?"

"You didn't tell Lestrade."

That got Sherlock's attention. "...No."

"Why not? From what I've seen you care more about being right than anything else."

"I... I don't know," Sherlock said, looking away briefly. "I didn't think you deserved to go to jail."

John nodded. "Right. Well, thanks."

Sherlock offered John a small. "You're welcome. So. Dinner?"

John nodded. "Dinner."

And John smiled and Sherlock smiled and for once Sherlock felt like this might be the start of something good.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I SWEAR I DID NOT REALISE TIL AFTER I WROTE IT HOW MUCH THAT LAST LINE SOUNDS LIKE HIGH SCHOOL MUSICAL. THAT WAS UNINTENTIONAL I PROMISE.  
> So, that's it for a Study in Pink! I might have a bit of an 'interlude' -- like normal college stuff, classes etc, before I start on the Blind Banker. Not sure yet. And I promise, I promise, I promise I will try so hard to update quicker. School is hell.


End file.
